


You are all the Lost Generation

by SebaDA



Series: One Generation Passeth Away and Another Cometh [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Child Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 09:17:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3604719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SebaDA/pseuds/SebaDA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam gets in a fight. He should have fought back. </p><p>John Winchester is an alcoholic, abusive asshole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You are all the Lost Generation

**Author's Note:**

> Thank goodness for Spring Break, I finally had time to get this written. Warning for physical and sexual abuse. If that isn't your thing, do not proceed, my friend.

“Are we inherently selfish?” he murmured as he heard the tread of the thick soled boots on the aged wooden floors. His brother wanted to give him his privacy he knew, but Dean was uncomfortable not being within shouting distance. 

Sam didn’t have to turn around to know that his brother hovered at the back of the cathedral uncertain on whether to sit in one of the pews or remain standing. Sam also knew how the stained glass would shine prettily down on his brother; the warm, hazy mosaic haloing Dean. 

Sam didn’t expect an answer but when Dean offered, “Not you Sammy, you’re not selfish,” he snorted mirthlessly. 

“You shouldn’t lie in church,” Sam wanted to protect his mashed insides from Dean’s love. Yet, he also wanted comfort, the comfort bred from feeling Dean’s callouses rasp through the fine hairs on the back of his neck. It was a shivery, unbearable pleasure. 

“Why’re you in a church Sam? Been looking for you forever, why didn’t you wait for me after school?” 

Dean wasn’t angry. His tone only conveyed exhaustion and relief. Still, he couldn’t turn and face him yet. There were bruises staining his mouth and cheek, if one looked close enough he could have found a faint knuckle impression on Sam’s face. His neck also pulsed with red finger size indentions. 

He was certain Dean was going to murder someone, and God only knows why but Sam didn’t wish that upon his tormentors. In fact, he agreed with the bullies. He is a geek, a nerd, and most of all he is a freak. 

He really didn’t mind being beaten up. He liked the hitting. Didn’t mind how after the evidence of the bullies’ violence marred his skin. Sam made them work for their triumph, always fled when they caught his scent. There was a release of anxiety by being captured that made his blood sing. 

He knew what came after. The blunt fuzzy ache of punches and the suffocating pain of kicks to the ribs, the stomach, and his kidneys. 

Despite Sam’s acceptance of being a target, Dean would never understand. How it felt good to Sam to be punished, sometimes, for being wrong, for growing up the way that he did. 

“I’m sorry you were looking for me. I just didn’t want to bother you cuz you were talking to that girl, and I needed to run to the library before it closed. I just came in here on the way back and I lost track of time,” Sam supplied quietly still lost in his head. 

Truthfully, he never went or even intended to go to the library today, but Dean would swallow the falsehood easy enough, “Alright, Sam,” he exhales heavily, prepared to drop the subject and all anger. 

It was better than telling him that he knew those beef-heads were waiting for him. That he purposefully gave them a tantalizing sight of his unwatched, vulnerable back and then allowed them to beat him bloody. Technically, he could have fought them off but what was the freaking point. Someone his size taking on all those guys, they would never leave him alone after that. But, that was all information that Dean would not be pleased to hear. Dean just wouldn’t get it. 

“Are you about done having your Jesus time? I’m starving and Dad expects me to have dinner home by the time he gets back.” 

That one sentence sucker punches Sam; hazel eyes stretched comically wide in surprise. He might have laughed at his reaction if any of this was funny. He sucks in a breath, and curses his own selfishness. He hadn’t realized that John returned home that day. If he had, he would have taken better care of himself. At least for Dean’s sake. 

Because for as long as both Sam and Dean could remember, Dean’s life had consisted of the instructions to protect Sam and not fuck up. He had to toe the straight and narrow when it came to Dad’s rules. Any failure meant that Dean felt the slicing sting of a leather belt. Beaten until not a single ounce of his beauty sparkled through. 

When Sam turns to exhibit his face, Dean pales, his freckles startlingly exquisite in the sun’s sleepy afternoon glow. 

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he mumbles , desperately falling into self-loathing and guilt. He would be the reason Dean wouldn’t be able to sleep properly or sit down tomorrow. Needlessly, Dean plasters on a smile, but his arms tremble ever so slightly. He sucks on the corner of his bottom lip in an unconscious show of nerves. 

Sam wants to collapse on the floor and beg for wrath. Dean’s complacency and his docile acceptance of abuse rolls nonsensically in Sam’s head until he word vomits. 

“Dean, I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. It’s never your fault. I’m so selfish. Please don’t let him hit you. Please De, please. Don’t be mad. I’m so sorry. Please…” Dean just shakes his head. 

Deflated, Sam picks himself off the pew and walks toward Dean chock full of shame. Spying the ring around his neck, Dean closes his eyes for several moments. Then his brother turns, the expanse of his back riddled with tension and motions for Sam to follow.

Sam wishes Dean would throttle him in this moment, in this abandoned church, with angels as their witnesses. But Dean doesn’t do anything but wrap a tan arm around his shoulder and steer them outside. Death would have been preferable. 

When John gets into the motel that evening, his breath reeked of alcohol and Sam felt tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. His father wouldn’t have the decency of self-restraint or rationality which fared ill for his brother. It doesn’t take long for John to take in the tense silence and downcast glances before he began scrutinizing his two boys with a drunken meanness. 

“What the hell’s the matter with you two?” he slurs, then he registers all the damage done to Sam’s face, “Whaddya run into, a brick wall?” 

Sam’s proud that his face remains steady when he replies, “Nah, just had a hard time with some guys at school.” 

“Really? Where the hell was Dean?” and that, well Sam just didn’t have a good answer to that. “Did you leave him alone, Dean? Leave your brother to fend for himself, what did I tell you before I left?” 

“To watch out for him, sir,” Dean stared at the grimy carpet with his shoulders slumped in shame. 

“And you let him get beat up, so where the fuck where you?” John barks in Dean’s face and Dean flinches minutely from the assault. The tiny little sign of weakness has John gripping the worn fabric of Dean’s multiple t-shirts and then pushing him hard in the chest. 

Sam steps in the way before John touches his brother again. “Stop, damn it, stop! It’s not his fault, don’t touch him.” 

His father stared at him as if he had grown another head. Fury began to draw a ruddy color to his face and he slapped Sam full in the face, hard, “Don’t you ever tell me how to discipline my son. I will do what I damn well please and what I see fit.” But Sam still rammed against his father determined not to let Dean take an unwarranted punishment.  
It was his brother that pulls him off and pushes him behind the shelter of his body. 

“Gonna play the hero now, huh. Even though you couldn’t be bothered with him earlier. You let a group of sniveling little shits attack your brother and where were you? Don’t tell me you were off with some girl. I might bash your fucking teeth in if you left your brother to chase a damn skirt.” Dean quaked under the onslaught, but he shook his head.

“No sir, wasn’t with a girl.” Nurture or nature—whichever had a larger influence—dictated that as John became more enraged, second naturedly, Dean reverted into this submissive, complacent creature. 

“Strip, now.” John commanded and Sam shoved against Dean. Everything in him ringing, screaming at a fever pitch because no. Just, no. Stripping would wrest even more power from Dean leaving him bare, vulnerable. But ever the good soldier, Dean just moved with efficient motions stripping quickly out of his jeans and tee-shirts while simultaneously heaving Sam backwards out of the confrontation. 

“shhhh, it’s okay, Sammy,” Dean breaths in a placating undertone, despite the inherent none okayness of this situation. They both recognized the perverse leer in their father’s eyes as he surveyed the miles of Dean’s teenage skin. 

John pulled out the desk chair and sank heavily into it. When Dean stepped near him, John drove his fist squarely into the soft flesh of his gut and Dean doubled over struggling to draw oxygen back into his abused body. It is in this period of defenselessness that John seizes Dean roughly onto his lap and with vigor began slapping his ass.  
“Stupid, do you know how stupid it is to tell me a lie. That’s all you fucking do is go around fucking girls. You expect me to believe you weren’t out there balls deep in some blonde instead of following my orders.” 

Dean gritted out, face assuredly overwarm from all the blood rushing to it, “No, sir. I was just with a buddy. We were talking and messing around, but there wasn’t a girl, I swear.” 

“Sam, get me my belt.” John ordered. His hand never once ceasing in their ministrations on Dean’s backside. But Sam couldn’t prod his body into action after watching this vicious exchange with hazel eyes thrown wide in horror. 

“No, he didn’t abandon me. He came looking for me after school. He wasn’t with a girl, I swear. Just stop, please. I’m begging you,” but John just barked, “Now, Samuel”.

Sam complied just praying it would force his dad to stop sooner. Dean though couldn’t take both a spanking and a belting on his sore ass, no matter how valiantly he attempted; he sprang up after the first smacks of the leather against his abused skin, pleading, “I’m sorry. So sorry. Sorry, I will do better, I swear. I’m sorry, sir”. 

Their father shoved Dean face first against the cotton thin motel walls and grips him around the neck pulling his head back at an unnatural angle, “You will be fucking sorry. Bend over the bed. Don’t move, or so help me God.” 

Dean trembles but he stands over the bed with his boxer-clan ass out. John storms over and yanks Dean’s briefs over his abused ass. “Will you take a look at that Sammy-boy? Your brother’s cherry red ass, what a beauty.” Sam’s stomach clenches at his father’s ogling and he felt bile rise as he watch John grip Dean’s ass in one hand, roughly groping what should have been untouchable. He didn’t understand what was going through his father’s head or the sudden switch from infuriation to this dirty, perverse infatuation. 

His older brother made a slight movement to jerk away from their father’s wandering hands, but at the harsh growl from John, he stayed motionless with tears running freely down his face. John unceremoniously pried his asscheeks open, exposing his pink hole, and whistled. 

“How many cock have you had up here, you little slut. Bet all your “buddies” shove their cocks in this tiny little hole, don’t they,” he hisses, leaning over Dean to speak into his ear. Dean shakes his head, unable to respond, but at this point John wasn’t even looking for an answer. Dean does yelp a pitiful, helpless sound nonetheless as John roughly shoves two fingers dry into his asshole and whimpers as John brutishly fingers him for what seems like an eternity. 

 

John doesn’t stop shouting until 3 a.m. when he finally passed out into a drunken stupor. He didn’t stop hitting Dean until Dean passed out unconscious curled in the fetal position alone in a corner cut in a dozen places by diamonded green beer bottle glass. 

Sam screamed once, when John had his fingers buried inside his brother, but halted in liquefied terror as John insisted that if there was a complaint from the front desk he would shoot Dean. John forbid Sam from going anywhere near Dean, and Sam laid for hours, throat aching from repressed sobs, in the smoke-filled motel bed praying for divine intervention. His father must be Lucifer, and surely wherever God was He would save his brother. 

Almost instantaneously after John dropped into a light hunter’s sleep, Sam creeped near his brother with a clean pair of boxer and shirt. He checked Dean’s vitals to assure that no permanent damage had been sustained and then he maneuvered the prone form into the clothes as gently as he could. A desire to shield Dean and himself from the world surged through him and he tugged a blanket to cover them as he wrapped an arm over his brother’s side.

 

John left sometime early in the morning, grunting at Sam’s sleepless form to “Get him up. You both have training to do.” Sam didn’t bother responding.

There was such depravity in his father’s statement that Sam muttered, “Christo” just under his breath but still in John’s earshot. His dad shot a bleary glare at Sam but he didn’t flinch, nor did his eyes flick black. 

After he vacated the trashed room and Sam heard the rumble and screech as the Impala tore out of the parking lot, Sam glanced at Dean. The dried metallic smell of Dean’s blood coated his clothes, his hair, and the carpet. As Sam petted the mutilated flesh of Dean’s cheek, a now very awake Dean’s caught his wrist and squeezed a warning. Deterred, Sam slides his fingers away from Dean’s prickly jawline. 

“Dean, please let me help you,” Sam whispers softly into the shell of his ear. 

“If you really want to do something, you can grab that bottle stashed at the bottom of my bag,” Dean grizzled out because his mouth was bloodied and ruined. Sam leaped immediately to locate Dean’s stash and returns triumphantly with the bottle. However, when he moves to twine his arm down around Dean’s waist to support him properly so that he can get his liquor down, Dean shrugs him off with a low, pained impatient sound. 

Sam instinctively sensed more tears welling up and a grossly pathetic half-bellow noise roils out of his mouth—definitely not a sound a mature thirteen year old should make. Drawing his knees to his chest, he curled his arms around his head in a morning-breath flavored cocoon. 

Distantly in a logical space of his brain, he came up with the knowledge that if he left in the next two minutes he might make it to third period if he ran fast enough. He shook the thought off, and focused on his brother. His brother that centered him and is a necessity. Dean who centers him as the axis balances Earth. 

Or, he amends, for forever Dean has been the Sun. Sam only orbited him. Now with his sunshine out of commission, nothing, not one thing was operating as it should. And whose fault is it? He couldn’t even find the most basic human compassion within himself to keep out of trouble for Dean’s sake. 

Beautiful Dean whose eyelashes belong on a girl and whose teeth sparkle as ivory does when he tumbles back his head in merriment. God, Dean was the closest thing he had of his mother. All of her buttery, inviting features he had inherited. And those features had been smashed in, desecrated, all because Sam didn’t fight back. 

John had told Dean that he was a disgrace, whoring about and not taking care of business. Said that Dean wasn’t a man, would never be if he didn’t accept responsibility. But it was Sam who would never be a man, never be half as good as Dean. Sam withdrew into himself as self-loathing and depression threw him about until he heard Dean’s muffled grunt and curse. 

“Sam,” Dean groaned, but Sam couldn’t face him again without falling on him trying to touch his mottled skin and absorb his aches. 

“Come on Sammy. Look at me,” Dean cajoles hoarsely as he brushes the top of Sam’s head with studied brotherly motions. Sam lifts slightly and spying Dean’s concerned frown wrinkling the skin between his eyebrows, he tucks his face back feeling a saltiness dampness trail down his face and drip onto cheap denim. 

“Sam, if you could pause your chick flick breakdown, I could use help getting off this floor,” Dean griped after a few moments still trying to diffuse the emotional tension from the situation. Sam didn’t bother wiping his tears away when he stood up. Just hooked his hands underneath Dean’s pits, and did his best to haul his brother to his feet. 

Dean gritted his teeth as he tried to stretch the kinks out of joints which resulted in ripping opening several partially scabbed over cuts. 

“You should shower to assess the damage so we can patch you up properly,” Sam stated plaintively. He didn’t try to touch Dean again though he longed to survey, steady, and support his brother. Dean nods once, and limps snail-like toward the motel bathroom. 

Sam takes a few moments to pray simply, “Please, God, heal my brother.” 

There was a thump and vicious swearing. Sam sprinted into the bathroom before Dean even had a chance to call him, and saw his brother caught in his shirt with his arms above his head. He whimpered in pain and he sounded like a wounded puppy. 

“It hurts Sam. Get me out,” and Sam didn’t have to be told twice. He pulled the white tee-shirt off Dean, and unbidden he admired Dean's body, the lean muscles that hinted at the man he would develop into in a few years.

Without thinking Sam pushed Dean briefs off gently, and when he heard a protesting noise he winced, “I’m just helping, De. Not going to do anything you don’t want. I promise,” he assures, giving pause for a few moments to broadcast his intentions before he presses on the back of Dean’s thighs to get him to lift his hips. He draws Dean’s underwear off as quickly as possible. He didn’t take time to stare at the multiple swathes of skin painted with bruises, but rather helped his brother back up and into the shower’s lukewarm stream. 

Sam didn’t want the water stinging Dean’s cuts so stripping quickly he jumped into the shower too. 

“What are we five again?” Dean snapped quietly, but he didn’t push Sam out. Sam grabbed the soap, and starting with Dean’s face cleaned away dried blood as gently as he could. Resigned, Dean closed his eyes and gritted his teeth against the hiss of soap in his cuts. He also bent down to allow Sam access to squeeze the cheap motel shampoo onto his head. Massaging the lather into his brother’s cropped hair, Sam hoped to soothe trauma from the previous twelve hours. Dean did indeed seem a fraction more relaxed but his voice was husky as he said, “Alright, I’m clean and we’ve been naked together for far too long.” 

Sam nodded and shut off the tap. He settled a gentle palm on Dean’s chest to hold him in place, and then he leaned out of the shower to grab the two biggest towels off the rack. He wrapped one around Dean, avoiding as much as a person could in this situation from staring too long at his brother’s private bits. 

Sam though could feel his blood dusting his neck and face pink; he wrapped the second towel around himself attempting to hide his own thickening cock. He did not want to freak his brother out right now, especially after what happened to Dean last night. 

The warm water seemed to help loosen Dean’s muscles and he was able to climb out of the shower without too much fuss and pain. 

Soupy steam coated the mirror, filling the fissures with an opaque equalizer, both wet steamy bodies were but vague shapes in the mirror. Sam pushed Dean against the sink and he leans against the surface compliantly. His breath hitches minutely as Sam spreads antibacterial cream into all of Dean’s cuts and Sam hums in sympathy. 

Sam gets lost in the manual task of bandaging all of Dean’s wounds and the warm atmosphere of the bathroom. After a while, there is nothing left for Sam to stitch up on his brother’s body but when he shifts about to move away Dean makes a noise in protest. Something stirred low in Sam’s stomach making him feel protective and horny at the same time. Sam takes in Dean’s lulled eyes, the heavy eyelids, easy posture and he takes his brother’s hand. 

 

He leads Dean into the motel room and lays him on the bed that their father did not deface. It’s not difficult to get Dean settled onto the mattress and to climb onto the bed with him.  
“Thank you, Sammy, for patching me up,” Dean softly whispers and Sam doesn’t even think… just leans over to press a light kiss on his mouth. 

“It’s my fault. What he did, it’s all my fault and I just want to make it better. Want to make you feel good,” Sam whispers in reply. 

“s’not your fault. Not your fault that he…” Dean paused, couldn’t quite wrap his head around what his so-called hero did to him, “beat me, not’s your fault. It’s not my fault either.” He said that last sentence quietly like he was attempting to convince himself and Sam couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop the flood bursting inside him. He kissed Dean’s jaw, right where his Dad marked him. 

“’m gonna make it better. Can I kiss it better, please? I’ll make it good, make you feel good. Promise.” Sam kissed the words along Dean’s skin, skimming his lips down the column of his brother’s throat. He feels more than hears the “yes” that slips from Dean’s mouth; encouraged, Sam slid down pressing fluttering, light kisses down his chest. 

When Sam neared Dean’s rapidly filling cock though, Dean tugged on his hair and Sam could read his brother’s body language well enough to know that this wasn’t happening anytime soon. Still, Sam had an idea. He laid apologetic kisses on his thighs, before shoving lightly to get Dean onto his stomach. 

“Do you trust me, De?” There was a muffled assent from below. Sam nuzzled the back of Dean’s neck, peppering the skin with light nibbles and suckling on his earlobe. This position gave Dean room to rut against the bed and he made a lovely whimper when Sam pulled him onto knees by his hips. “I’m going to kiss it better,” he warned before he kissed Dean’s lower back. However, his brother didn’t put it together until Sam kissed one of the welts left on his ass from the belt. 

“No, Sam, not there,” but Sam partially disregarded the comment, because it was compulsory for him to coat every single scratch with physical declarations of his immense devotion. He also knew that Dean would put up more of a struggle if he really didn’t want this and Sam would never force his brother into anything. Only provide him with affection that he sorely deserved. 

His thumbs rubbed repetitive patterns on Dean’s hips as he laved his tongue over every crisscrossed stripe covering his backside. Sam didn’t have any idea what he was doing, had absolutely no sexual experience. Just fumbled through endeavoring to bring as much pleasure to Dean as he could. As pacifying as possible, Sam spread Dean open with clumsy fingers and moved to lick the most intimate space of his brother’s body. 

“Sammy, god, don’t,” as Sam puffs wetly against his hole, “hurts, it hurts there.” 

He pulls his head away long away to answer, “Then let me make it stop hurting, De.” And Dean acquiesces with a bitten off moan and presses his ass back against Sam’s face. Sam laps at the sore hole with more patient attention than skill. His jaw begins to ache as he tries to dive his tongue further into the gripping heat of Dean’s insides but he preserves until his brother’s shudders through an overwhelming orgasm. 

Flopping belly-down onto the bedspread, Dean sleepily nestled into the pillows still panting loudly through his nose. Sam looks down on him fondly and presses a parting kiss onto the sloping planes of his bare back. 

“Get some rest, I’ll bring you back a burger and some pie. I love you,” and he grinned as he heard Dean’s happy, lovey murmur because he knew that was Dean returning the sentiment. 

Didn’t take him too long to fetch the lunch and bring it back to his brother, but Sam still felt antsy leaving Dean alone for that long. He didn’t have a clear idea of where his father left to this morning and he didn’t want John stumbling into the room with a naked Dean spread out like a fucking Christmas present. But when he got back, it was obvious that nothing had disturbed his brother. Sleep cleaned away the premature lines on Dean’s face and he looked purely angelic lost in the throes of unperturbed sleep. 

Nevertheless, Sam coaxed Dean out of sleep by wagging the burger underneath his nose. Dean broke a record: it only took minutes to scarf down the food, pat Sam’s arm in thanks, and drop back off to sleep. 

 

He decided in that moment, with the evening sunlight descending into this room lighting the previous night’s destruction, that humans were infinitely selfish. It was selfishness that drove him to strive for normalcy, even though he was cognizant of the pain it caused Dean. Selfishness that drove him to kiss his brother. 

It was that selfishness that lead to him looming over his father in the wee hours of the morning and pressing Dean’s favorite hunting knife to his father throat. This selfish drive that made it mandatory to threaten the life of his dad. To inform John with maniac eyes filled with potential violence that if he ever laid a finger on Dean again: he would, or more accurately would not, wake up with the knife buried in his gut and a bullet to the head. 

Greediness compelled Sam to love his brother and be in love with him at the same time. 

But frankly, Sam didn’t give a damn.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I appreciate kudos and comments. :) Ideas for new fics are also much appreciated.


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